


Shake It, Arthur, Shake It

by jibrailis



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibrailis/pseuds/jibrailis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur wears purple velour tracksuits when he's not on the job. Eames is properly horrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shake It, Arthur, Shake It

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't the fic I was planning to write, but it's the one I wrote anyway to get myself out of writer's block. Inspired by the wild imaginings of [sorrynotsorry](http://sorrynotsorry.livejournal.com), [bookshop](http://bookshop.livejournal.com), and [cobweb_diamond.](http://cobweb_diamond.livejornal.com)

It's always about the other people first. That's the proper way to tell a story. Wide lens when the screen fades out from grey, when the world wakes up from slumber, and then narrowed in. Look first at the sprinkling of dust motes on the hotel bed. Watch how they fall over Eames' outstretched hand, lying two inches from Arthur's hip, the most deadly two inches in the world. The sound that Arthur makes, the delicate puff of breath, isn't anything you'll hear in the brighter, harsher hours. Eames turns towards him, hoping to capture the imbalance. The best moments in life are the ones that play havoc with equilibrium.

This is the scene. Mark it. Frame it.

Then forget it.

This could be a story about love. This could be a story about possibility. This could be a story about violence, and loss, and the grim beauty of acceptance. This could be a story about all of these things.

This is a story about Wal-Mart.

 

* * *

 

When Eames gets his hand on Arthur's cell phone -- and his hands are very fast indeed, swiping it out from under Arthur's nose when Arthur is leaning over the counter, trying to charm the concierge into letting them have the room next to the mark's, the room that's supposed to be booked for a bigwig CEO --, he flips to the call history first.

"Who's Evelyn?" he asks when they have the key to the right room and are walking towards the elevator. Arthur's in a good mood. Eames can tell because he lopes rather than walks, and he doesn't demand his phone back. "According to this, you call her every day, which is more than you call anybody else, even me. Should I be jealous, darling?"

"I'm not your darling," Arthur says, but it's more automatic than anything else. He rolls his shoulders as they wait inside the elevator. "And Evelyn is...a friend."

"A friend you absolutely can't live without?" Eames asks. "'Cause most of these calls are from you to her, not the other way around."

"Yes, exactly," Arthur says. "Evelyn and I are passionately in love. Every morning after I wake up before you, I sneak to the bathroom and phone her up, and then we have the most obscene phone sex known to man. She makes me come twice, just by the sound of her voice alone."

"Ha bloody ha," Eames replies, and it doesn't ease his sudden sullen jealousy that in fact he _has_ woken up to find Arthur holed up in the bathroom on the phone. He's always figured it was business-related, maybe Arthur checking in with Cobb. But Arthur gives him a cheeky smile, and Eames sneaks a quick reassuring kiss before the elevator doors open them to the fifteenth floor. Arthur doesn't resist. That's progress, Eames thinks. That's the work of a year of seeing each other. That's love.

Which doesn't explain why Eames tries his hardest to wake up before Arthur in the morning. He fails. It's five a.m, he blinks, and Arthur is leaving the bathroom clean shaven and whistling under his breath.

"Did you say hi to Evelyn for me?" Eames asks.

"I did, right before she told me to put my fingers in my ass," Arthur replies. Then he has the audacity to push Eames back down on the bed and straddle him, grinding his knee gently against Eames' interested groin.

Arthur is good. Eames is going to have to be better.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, _Evelyn_ ," Ariadne says when Eames meets her for lunch on a cool November afternoon. She's cupping her hazelnut latte in between gloved hands, and her cheeks are lively red. Looking at her, you'd almost forget that she's capable of destroying worlds. "Yeah, I know Evelyn. Evelyn is great."

"Great in what sense?" Eames asks. "Great big nose? Great big donkey laugh? Great nasty sores all over her body?"

"Wow, Eames, are you going to push her down the slide on the playground too?" Ariadne asks. 

A thought occurs to Eames. He should have thought of it sooner. "Evelyn's his mother, isn't she?" He starts to relax. "Or his sister. Or a beloved cousin."

"Not at all," Ariadne says cheerfully. "They used to date."

 

* * *

 

Eames has a way of unwinding after a long day. It's not a hobby that he shares with many people; in fact, the day he told Arthur was the day he knew that it was more than just flush bodies against a brick wall or a slide of lips when no one else is looking.

When Eames wants to wipe his mind clean, he goes into his linen closet and pulls out a brightly coloured box.

Then he plays Hungry Hungry Hippos.

 

* * *

 

 _Then_ he buys the first plane ticket to Chicago.

 

* * *

 

"The door's open! Come in!" Arthur yells when Eames knocks. Eames pokes his head into the flat curiously. Arthur lives in Chicago and Eames in whatever city will have him, so it's not often that Eames has seen Arthur's place before. With their living conditions, it's usually easier for Arthur to come visit him than the other way around. The flat is military sparse, a neat checkered space of white and navy blue, but as Eames waits in the living room for Arthur to finish whatever he's doing in the bedroom, he notices some inconsistencies. The oddly garish orange pillows tucked behind the cream-coloured set. The Rambo posters hanging beside the Toulouse-Lautrec prints. The...zebra curtains in the kitchen. The _velvet_ zebra curtains.

Eames starts to feel a bit dizzy.

Then Arthur finally comes out of the bedroom, and Eames feels the world shift from beneath his feet.

 

* * *

 

The first time Eames met Arthur, Arthur was wearing a beautiful pinstripe suit that emphasized the endless brilliance of his legs and the slender jutting angles of his wrists. Eames took one look at him, and at the small drop of blood on his lapel from where he'd just shot an enemy, and he'd wanted to toss him to the ground and fuck him in long thrusts right there.

When they actually got around to fucking, Arthur was wearing a periwinkle sweatervest that brought out the laughter in his eyes, and his slacks were soft to the touch, not that Eames spent much time touching the pants when efficiency and pounding lust dictated he rip them off and get down to what was underneath.

Today, when Arthur leaves his bedroom, he's wearing [a purple velour tracksuit](http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:0eyqYmzM1q3A7M:http://cdn2.ioffer.com/img/item/167/538/097/r2xZ.jpg&t=1).

"Does...does it say juicy on your arse?" Eames asks, feeling somewhat faint. He grasps for the couch. He sits down. 

"Yes, yes it does," Arthur replies without batting a lash. The velour crinkles across his thighs as he moves. It's the most disturbing thing Eames has ever seen. "You want something to drink?"

"I -- should we talk about this?"

"Talk about what?"

"Is this one of your ironic statements?" Eames asks. "Because I always knew you were a pretentious hipster shite. Should we -- should we be going to a Neutral Milk Hotel concert right now?"

"Neutral who?" Arthur asks. "Chill, Eames, you're starting to give _me_ heart palpitations. I don't see what the big deal is."

 _"Arthur_ ," Eames says helplessly. _"Juicy."_

Arthur sighs. "Evelyn warned me about this."

 

* * *

 

It turns out that aside from being Arthur's fantastically well-endowed ex-girlfriend, she's also his stylist. "I call her every morning when I need to dress professionally and she tells me what to wear," he says matter-of-factly, and a part of Eames is light with relief and another part is petrified with horror. They're sitting at the kitchen table as Arthur pours Eames some whiskey, and he's still wearing that _thing._ It's so fascinatingly purple. He can't keep his eyes off it. He can't keep his eyes from twitching either, and Arthur is starting to frown at him.

"Look, I don't care about clothes as much as everybody thinks I do," Arthur says. "If I don't have to travel or work a job, I wear what's convenient and comfortable."

"Is that...comfortable?" Eames asks.

"It's velour, motherfucker," Arthur says. "It slides against my skin. I love it."

"It's a woman's tracksuit, isn't it, you skinny bastard," Eames says, and a note of admiration sneaks into his voice. Eames likes women's clothes. He likes wearing women's clothes. When he has to go under and forge as a woman, he loves the selection of dresses and tights and soft, breezy blouses that he can pick from. He loves looking at himself in the mirror and seeing the smear of eyeshadow on his skin. So this isn't the part that unnerves him. 

No, that's still the velour. And the purple. And the juicy. Obviously. 

But Arthur is giving him a dark look, and Eames still dreams about Arthur's legs sliding around his waist at night, so he spreads his hands and says, "Hey, I accept you for who you are. If this is what you want to wear in your own home, that's fine by me."

"Thank you," Arthur says. Then he grins, mean and assured of his own victory, "I ruined a few shirts the other day. Bullet holes and all that. Want to come shopping with me tomorrow?"

"I love you," Eames says. "I love you madly."

Arthur pats him on the head condescendingly. "It's not going to work."

 

* * *

 

Arthur has hands like a magician. Deft, beautiful, and capable of such quickness that Eames has never tried to play cards against Arthur because he knows it's a lost cause. If this were a Victorian stage, Arthur would convince the audience that he was capable of miracles. He has hands that look like they could bring back the dead. So it shocks Eames a bit to see Arthur's hands riffling through the clothes racks at Wal-Mart.

"They don't sell Juicy Couture at Wal-Mart," Eames points out.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "What kind of person do you take me for? The tracksuit is for _special occasions_." He picks out [a green plaid flannel shirt](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Faded-Glory-Men-s-Long-Sleeve-Plaid-Flannel-Shirt/14893145) and holds it against his body. "What do you think?" he asks half-mockingly.

And because Eames' heart quickens every time Arthur looks at him askance -- it's really the most ridiculous thing; he used to be so suave before Arthur --, he says, "It's lovely." Then he adds, "Wait, so you were dressing up for me?"

Arthur smiles.

Then he starts picking out other shirts. There's [the other plaid shirt](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Plains-Men-s-Long-Sleeve-Plaid-Shirt/14011762), [the white shirt with the designs on the shoulders](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Men-s-MMA-Elite-Woven-Shirt/14034206),[ the brown solid canvas shirt](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Wrangler-Jeans-Co.-Men-s-Solid-Canvas/14522753), and [the shirt that makes Arthur look like the sort of nerd who got shoved into storage closets in high school](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Wrangler-Hero-Men-s-Short-Sleeve-Woven-Shirt/14521408). The latter intrigues Eames in a incongruously perverse sort of way, and he thinks about how he'd like to get Arthur in chunky glasses with a calculator protector, and then fuck him as Arthur calls him teacher.

"Okay, that's the formal stuff out of the way," Arthur says, and Eames thinks about his rosy red arse and how it'll feel to pound into it later tonight.

Arthur picks out [a hoodie](http://www.walmart.com/ip/OP-Men-s-Printed-Hoodie/14150983), and then grins to himself as he starts to move through the t-shirts. There's [this one](http://www.walmart.com/ip/George-Men-s-Short-Sleeve-Printed-Shirt/13352510), and [this one](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Disney-Men-s-Phineas-and-Ferb-Agent-P-Big-Face-Tee/15078659), and [this one](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Men-s-Shadow-Skull-Short-Sleeve-Tee/15049679), and [this one](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Kellogg-Men-s-Tony-the-Tiger-Big-Face-Tee/15076287). Arthur returns to the long-sleeved shirts and says "[Oh, microfiber](http://www.walmart.com/ip/George-Men-s-Long-Sleeve-Microfiber-Shirt/14151272)" under his breath with an awed hush that he usually reserves for Eames' cock inside of his body. By the time he holds up [the coveralls](http://www.walmart.com/ip/Walls-Men-s-12-oz.-Rigid-Duck-Insulated-Coveralls/11714627), Eames is starting to feel that clench in his stomach that's either indigestion from the sushi he ate for lunch or falling in love all over again.

Arthur has apparently been to this local Wal-Mart many times. He's absolutely comfortable in it, moving from clothes to the kitchen appliances section where he picks up a new teapot, and then he saunters over to the electronics section for some fresh AA batteries. Eames, who has spent most of his adult life in countries where Wal-Mart is just a store on American telly, feels his fingers twitch with interest.

"Don't even think about it," Arthur says.

"But--"

"I refuse to sleep with a guy who shoplifts from Wal-Mart," Arthur says, and really they shouldn't be having this conversation at all because _he's still wearing the velour_ , and people are staring. Eames decides to stare back. He crooks an eyebrow at a young couple by the DVDs, and they quickly look away.

Eames helps Arthur carry the bags out of the store and into the parking lot. When they return home -- no, not home, Arthur's apartment, Eames reminds himself -- Eames helps him hang the shirts up in the closet. Eames gets his first real glimpse of Arthur's closet and it's as schizophrenic as he's come to expect it. Half of the clothes are outrageously elegant and tasteful, and the other half is just...outrageous.

"Arthur," Eames says, "don't shoot me for saying this, but are you, ah, colourblind?"

"Eames," Arthur retorts. He looks at Eames' shirt and trousers.

Eames narrows his eyes. "That's not fair. You can't even compare the two."

"Evelyn thinks otherwise," Arthur says. 

"How would Evelyn know?"

"I showed her a photo of you," Arthur says casually, and Eames' eyebrows go up again as he pulls Arthur towards him, touching as much of the velour as he can bear, crinkling it between his fingers. "God, you're so narcissistic," Arthur complains, but Eames kisses him softly, wondrously. And then he smacks Arthur's juicy arse.

 

* * *

 

Arthur, being Arthur after all, punches him.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, when they're making out against the kitchen table and Eames is pushing Arthur's purple trousers off as fast as he can, he pauses and squints. "You're going to have to explain this one to me," he says, looking at [Arthur's boxers](http://www.walmart.com/ip/MTV-Men-s-Jersey-Shore-Logo-Boxer-Shorts/14907361). But Arthur just gives him the finger and then slides his hand through Eames' hair, locking their mouths together until even breathing seems like an afterthought.

Arthur looks best when he's naked. Arthur naked is a coil of muscle and deceptive power contrasted against the soft vulnerability of his hair without gel. Eames used to think that Arthur would be serious in bed, all business, but it's turned out anything but. Arthur is playful, aggressive, and bottoms from the top like it's his goddamn entitlement that Eames will do anything he asks. He slides his thighs around Eames', holding him close as his tongue and teeth mark Eames' forearm. 

Eames tries to peel Arthur away so that he can go down on him, but Arthur seals his thighs even tighter and gives Eames a look that says _what the hell are you doing? We move at my pace._

Arthur is a contrary prick.

Eames thinks -- believes, knows, will one day say out loud -- he's pretty much perfect.

 

* * *

 

Arthur wears [thermal underwear](http://www.walmart.com/ip/HANES-Men-s-Thermal-Pant/14916852) to bed. 

"You freak," Eames laughs, trailing one finger up Arthur's stomach.

"I get cold," Arthur protests.

Eames lets his palm rest on his skin. He scratches Arthur idly with the edge of his nail and Arthur makes a sound of deep happiness. "I'll keep you warm," Eames says.

 

* * *

 

A lie.

This is a love story after all.

It always is.


End file.
